


A Man in Uniform

by laideur



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Out, First Time, M/M, Military Kink, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Sexual Content, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/laideur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson come across each other one night in surprising circumstances, which leads to unexpected though oft dreamt of consequences.  Sexy consequences.  There's porn here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man in Uniform

"And I'll tell you another thing," ex-Officer Carter growled, slamming his drink on the table, "the only work an old campaigner can get in this city is none of the sort that any real man would ever stoop to in his life." 

This was met with grumbling assent. "It's disgusting, is what it is," hissed ex-Officer Jones. "Hell isn't good enough for creatures like that." 

"They used to hang them, you know," ex-Officer Baxter replied. "Should never have stopped, if you ask me." 

"The law will get to them eventually," I said, staring into my pint. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. A few of the fellows I knew from the service were in London the same week, and so it followed that we should meet to reminisce over drinks. I thought very little of my brief army career these days, much to my relief. The pain and misery of the experience had receded far enough that the remaining memories had begun to be colored with a hint of nostalgia. It had been (ex-Officer) Gordon’s idea that we all wear our uniforms. I suspected that he expected to be the only one who still fit into his, but I had squarely disappointed him on that front. Given the fact that enteric fever had wasted me away to nearly nothing, and that I had made equally great strides in recovery, I fit into my uniform nearly perfectly, unlike my companions, who were approaching middle age with little grace. 

The evening began well. My four companions and I shared a meal and then retired to one of their clubs for drinks. However, as the night wore on, it became clear why I had not spoken to these men in the past year and a half. Whatever friendships men forge in the course of patriotic service do not necessarily translate to the fireside discussions where they align themselves by their own opinions and prejudices. Through some indefinable yet inevitable course of discursion, the conversation had at last turned to the issue of vice in the city. 

"If the law did what it were here for, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Carter said. 

"Coppers be damned," said Jones. "Every time I see a molly boy in a dress uniform, I want to kick his head in." 

"Those lads aren't the ones to be mad at," said Gordon, shaking his head. "It's the sick old buggerers that troll about looking for a soldier down on his luck." 

Jones, who was quite red in the face with drink at this point, stood up suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table, causing us all to clutch our drinks in alarm. "I have it, gents. We'll go down the street to Hyde Park and pitch camp. And when some bastard tries to pick one of us up, we jump 'im!" 

And that was how I ended up standing conspicuously on the corner of the park, with a group of uniformed soldiers, arranged in a semicircle beside a park bench, looking like men trying to look like rentboys, waiting to be propositioned. 

It was slightly past midnight and the night was still warm. The air was piquant with the smell of blooming foliage. We huddled at the periphery of one of the circles of gaslight. Sounds of light laughter and rustling leaves wafted gently from the darkness. Farther up the path I saw three pale thin boys leaning against the fence. One was engaged in close conversation with a shabbily dressed man. I saw his grin flash beneath his low hat. Despite the warmth of the night, I buried my hands in my pockets and tucked my chin into my collar. 

I have known men who lay with men out of convenience, and others out of preference. Despite my proven love of women I had, in my youth, loved members of my own sex. And even now I did not find the thought repugnant. The sore truth was, however, that the lover and the predator were indistinguishable in the eyes of normal men. I pitied the boys in the park, but I also pitied the men who were driven to them to quell their own loneliness. 

I heard footsteps approaching on the gravel path. I sensed my companions shifting their positions beside me. A man was coming towards us. As he approached his tread slowed to casually swinging footsteps. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the ground, and a brief panic swept through me when a pair of pointed boots stopped immediately before me. 

"Good evening," said he. "Care for a stroll?" 

I raised my eyes with trepidation, and found myself staring directly into those of Sherlock Holmes. 

I swear I almost did not recognize him at first, so entirely out of context was his appearance. He jerked backwards, eyes wide in shock and alarm. He was so thunderstruck at that moment that when my companions leapt upon him he fell straight to the ground without a struggle. He cried out in pain and I was jolted from my stupor. 

"Stop! It's Holmes!" I shouted as I tried to bodily shield him from their kicks and blows. Eventually they heard my pleas and laid off their beating. I knelt beside Holmes, aghast and ashamed that my companions would savagely beat a man while he lay on the ground. 

"Is that really him? I never would have imagined." 

"How could we have known?" 

"If that's Sherlock Holmes, what's he doing out here?" 

Holmes sprang to his feet and began dusting off his clothing, although I noticed he held his right arm rather stiffly and swayed slightly. I hoped he was not seriously injured. "Much the same thing as you gentlemen, I'm sure," he declared in a clear, authoritative voice. "I am pursuing several criminals who have systematically contributed to the moral degeneration of London's youth and I have been wandering the park tonight in hopes of locating valuable informants. Needless to say, it was the last place I expected to find you, friend Watson. Perhaps in future we should coordinate our efforts more closely." As he spoke to me, he did not meet my eyes, but glanced nervously up and down the path. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I have accomplished quite enough tonight and had best be returning home." The words were hardly out of his mouth when he began striding away as fast as his tall legs could carry him. 

"I'd better see he gets home safe," I muttered, and bade a hasty farewell to my companions, who were still standing mutely in the circle of gaslight, looking very confused and slightly apologetic. 

Holmes had somehow managed to flag down a cab. I caught up with him just as he was climbing in. 

"Holmes, wait! Are you badly hurt?" 

"I'm perfectly alright." 

"Nonsense, you're bleeding." 

He raised his hand to his brow and touched the cut that was slowly trickling blood. "It is only a scratch." Then he reached into his jacket somewhat awkwardly with his left hand and withdrew a handkerchief. I noticed that he was holding his right arm very still. 

"Your arm is injured." 

"I tell you, I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. 

There was no use arguing with him, and I couldn't do anything for him here, so I let him have his way for the moment. 

He would not acknowledge my presence in the cab even as I sat beside him. "I'm terribly sorry you were caught in the middle of that. If I had only known where you were going tonight I may have been prepared." 

His mouth quirked up at the side in a humorless smile. "I assure you, if I had known what you were up to I would have avoided the park altogether." 

"This new case must be a sordid business if it causes you to seek out that sort of company." 

Holmes sighed heavily. "You would doubtless find it appalling." 

"I'm sorry if I have brought your investigations to a premature end." 

"It is not your fault. The object of these investigations has eluded me for quite some time." 

”If there is anything I can do to help--” 

”I’d really rather not talk about it,” he said quietly. We spent the rest of the cab ride in silence, and when we reached our destination, he was through the door and up the stairs without a word, leaving me behind to pay the fare. 

I was certain he was still upset about my oafish companions hindering his work. I sought for a way to apologize to him that would not reflect badly upon myself. It would be madness to reveal my true position, yet I could not truly believe any lie would make my actions forgivable. I steeled myself for an argument. 

When I entered the sitting room, Holmes was standing beside the mantle with his pipe between his teeth. He was attempting to strike a match with his left hand and was struggling to keep hold of the matchbook with his right. When he saw me he made a dash for his room, but I blocked him at the door. 

”You must let me look at your arm. I can see your wrist swelling already. It could be broken.” 

”Just a sprain, I’m sure.” 

I pressed on. "Please, I cannot apologize enough for what those scoundrels did to you and I must examine your arm to determine whether I should be unremittingly furious at them or merely very, very angry." 

He sighed. "Fine. If it will satisfy you." 

"It will. " I told him to light the lamp and sit on his bed, and proceeded to poke and prod at his arm. It was not broken, thankfully, but badly sprained. I fetched some bandages from my medical kit and proceeded to bind it up. 

“If you had not thrown me off my guard so badly,” he said, “I’m sure I could have taken four drunk and out of shape men, former soldiers or no.” 

“Or at least had the presence of mind to start running.” 

“It should have been obvious from a mile away that you were mere _poseurs_.” 

“And yet, we fooled the great Sherlock Holmes. Or, at least I did.” A thought I had had since we met in the park suddenly resurfaced. “Do I really fit the part so well?” I tried to jest, but the humor died in my mouth. 

“No!” he exclaimed. “No one looking at you could ever possibly think that -- you didn't look the least bit like—“ 

“Like a man who—“ 

"You looked like yourself. Incredibly kind, and helpful." He worried at a stray thread in the blanket with his free hand. "I often wish there were more men who shared your qualities." 

"Thank you," I said flatly. All of a sudden the room seemed far too small and quiet. I cleared my throat. "Your wrist should be fine." 

”So your friends need not fear your wroth raining down upon their heads.” 

”They’re not my friends. I don’t know why I ever went along with such an awful scheme.” 

”Surely, for a fine upstanding man such as yourself, it would be a wish to see the wicked punished?” 

”I do wish to see the wicked punished. But the men in that park…Holmes, I know you said it was none of my business, but I would really like to know the nature of the case you are working on. As sordid as it may be, that cannot be the only point that holds interest.” 

”You heard what I said to your companions in the park.” 

”Oh, I heard you mutter something about morality, but since when have you cared a whit about society’s morals? What could possibly make this so different.” 

”That is very true, Watson.” He spoke slowly, as if he knew his words were leading us over a precipice. "And what might you deduce from that?" 

"You never take a case unless it has some singular mystery, and rarely if it is a mere concern for bourgeois morality. This has no mystery, and is solely a matter of public decency. Therefore…you have no such case." 

"You are correct. There was no case." 

"So…the park…you were…" 

"I was looking for a man to spend the night with." 

He raised a sardonic eyebrow at me, giving me the briefest glance, daring me to react. So many emotions welled up within me at that moment that all I could do was sit there and stare dumbly at him. 

"So now you know," he continued. “I had meant to tell you one day, but it never seemed necessary. I know that you generally disapprove of my habits, but I swear to you, it is not so frequent an indulgence as you might imagine. In fact it has been nearly a year. And really, it would be no concern of yours if you did not insist on trying to correct the downfalls of society with your boot heels. Tell me, Watson, am I right in supposing this is the end of our friendship?" 

This question had the fortunate effect of focusing my mind, which had been addled by these extraordinary revelations. 

"No, of course not." 

Holmes sighed in relief. 

"But I still have one other question, and I should like an honest answer. I deserve that much. Why did you choose me?" 

"I cannot answer that." 

"Why not?" 

"Because that would truly spell the end of our friendship." 

"Holmes…." 

He closed his eyes. I could see his jaw clench. His voice, when he spoke, was barely audible. "I meant what I said before. You looked just like yourself. And when you left the flat in your uniform earlier this evening, I saw you. You looked…staggeringly handsome." 

” _Holmes_ …” 

He laid a delicate hand over his face and seemed to collapse in upon himself. 

“Holmes, look at me, please. Why won’t you look at me?” 

“Because it is more disgrace than I can stand for you to see me lose control of my own thoughts, and I am in great danger of doing so. You are still wearing that uniform, and I cannot bear it. Leave me. Please.” 

Seldom in life is a man so lucky to find the correct course of action so unambiguously visible, but in that instant I knew exactly what I must do for both of us, as clearly as if I had been spoken to. 

”Very well, if that is your problem.” I stood up and closed the door, then took my place in the center of the room. I began unbuttoning my jacket, trying to keep my breathing slow and my hands steady. I didn’t want to move one step away from him, so I simply threw it aside. My cuffs, collar, cravat—all were cast to the floor. When I pulled my undershirt over my head I noticed that Holmes had finally taken an interest in my performance. He was staring at me with a piercing gaze and a forcibly blank expression. The only sign of emotion was the rapid breathing that moved his chest. 

I unbuttoned my trousers and felt a flicker of doubt. I pushed them down my thighs and laid my hands on the drawstring of my underpants. 

Holmes rose from the bed and took one step so he stood directly before me. He grasped my wrists, halting my undressing. Then he kissed me. 

It was light and tentative, but his lips quivered with restrained eagerness. I placed a hand on the back of his head, encouraging him to deepen the kiss. I sucked gently at his bottom lip. He drew a deep breath. His arms went around me. His hands were warm on my back. He kissed me deeply. His tongue lapped into my mouth delicately, and then forcefully. His body was firm against my own, and his arousal was stiff and insistent against the cut of my hip. 

I rotated my hips slowly to feel the slight friction. Our cocks rubbed together, the sensation muted by several layers of clothing. His mouth left mine and nipped at my jaw. 

"John," he whispered thickly, his moist breath tickling my ear, "I want you to--would you--" and then in one quick, rough sigh, "Fuck me, John." 

The baseness of his language enflamed me. I squeezed his arse with both hands an pressed his hips against mine. We rocked together, and he rolled with my movements as I held him in my arms. His eyes were heavy with lust, mouth red and panting. His face put me in mind of how he appears when under the influence of his cocaine, but enhanced tenfold. I had never seen him so affected, and wanted to see him lost utterly in the flame of passion, splayed out, wrapped around me, anything, everything. 

I plucked at his shirt. “We could do without this.” 

He stepped back to pull his shirt over his head. The long bulge of his manhood tented his trousers obscenely. 

I reached into my drawers and took hold of myself. He saw this and approached me, kissed me, and pushed my clothes down. I was hopelessly aroused, cock at full mast between us. His eyes widened at the sight and a shudder seemed to pass over his entire body. 

I am fairly well endowed, and for a moment I worried that this fact had caused him to reconsider. 

"Is it alright?" I said. "If you'd rather-" 

"No," he interrupted, eyes meeting my own. "You're perfect. Absolutely perfect." 

He kissed me savagely, driving me backwards so I collided with his dressing table. My hand swept behind me for balance, scattering the various jars and bottles of stage make-up he used to perfect his disguises. Something shattered on the floor, but he did not seem to notice. He had my hips pinned against the edge of the table and was sliding down to his knees, planting wet sucking kisses on my abdomen. He looked up at me, questioningly, through his long black lashes, and I nodded. I knew what he was about to do, but it sill made me catch my breath when his mouth landed on my cock. 

I was certain I had died. In that moment I pushed all thoughts of women out of my head. It was abundantly clear that he had done this before. He held my cock with one hand as his mouth came to know the length of me. His tongue wriggled and probed at that sensitive place on the underside in a way that me clutch the table edge. I stroked his face, his thin cheeks as they sucked in, his lips at the place our bodies met. His hand moved to cup my balls gently in his palm. With his long fingers he rubbed at that sensitive spot behind. I barely had to think what touch I desired before he knew it. It was as much as one could possibly hope from a man as observant as Holmes. 

He took his hands away and I sensed him undoing his own flies. I leaned over slightly so I could see his lap as he drew himself out of his trousers. He was intensely aroused, cock springing free in an upward curve. So flushed with blood, a deep cerise red color, and he had not even been touched yet. I had never seen a man so aroused at this point, with so little stimulus. I wondered how long he had been wanting this. 

He paused to wet his hand with the moisture in his mouth, and began frigging himself. I felt him tremble with the sensation, and when he moaned around my cock I felt it vibrate deep within my loins. I feared I might come off before I could fill his request, so I tugged gently at his hair to draw him back. This seemed to enflame him even further. His eyelids fluttered and he clutched my leg. 

"Stop," I said. "Stop, before I finish." 

He sat back on his heels and looked up at me, watery eyed and swollen mouthed, with a smile equal parts contentment and debauchery. He looked like a whore. 

"Do you have…anything?" I asked. 

”That jar by your right hand should do nicely.” 

I found the jar he was looking for and held it out to him. 

"Thank you. I don't suppose you might provide further assistance?" 

"I want to watch you do it," I said. 

He smiled--smirked more like, as if my request suited his purpose perfectly. 

He piled up some pillows at the head of the bed and laid down. He spread his knees. I could see everything from where I stood. 

He unscrewed the cap and scooped out a glistening dollop of Vaseline on two fingers, then place the jar on the table beside him. He licked his lips, contemplating what he was about to do, and what I was about to do to him. Gently, with his right hand, he lifted his balls out of the way and pressed his slick fingers against his hole. His back arched as he breached himself. A scarlet flush covered his face and chest. He drove deeper, scissoring his fingers. His hips rocked with the motion of his hand. His thumb pressed his perineum as his fingers curled inside of him. He held my gaze as his face flushed and his red mouth gasped. I wondered who else he had performed this particular act for. Is this what he wanted from the whores in he park? 

I was overcome with a wave of possessiveness. I growled at him, "Get on your knees." He was never one to take orders unless it suited his purpose, so I imaging the smile he gave me over his shoulder was an acknowledgment that this was what he wanted all along. He settled on to the bed, on knees and elbows, sparing his wrist. Swaybacked, arse in the air, he looked like a dog in heat. I climbed onto the bed behind him and rubbed my palms over his arse, squeezing and scratching the skin, drawing red and white lines with my fingernails. he breathed heavily, trying to resist backing onto me. I slid my cock between his slick cheeks and rocked against him, rutting slowly, reveling in the heat of his body. 

”For God’s sake, John!” he cried. “Do you need an engraved invitation?” 

Perhaps I was teasing him rather too much. Very well then; I would do as he liked. There was the initial resistance, as his tight muscle stretched to accommodate me, and a soft hiss of pain; then, as if by force of will, he released all the tension in his body and I slid into him in one long, smooth motion. I will never tire of how a man feels from the inside, so smooth and soft and hot. He adjusted his hips to find the right angle, but I could not resist one shallow thrust. He moaned and pushed back to against me. I repeated the movement, this time swirling my hips against his arse. He gasped suddenly. “Right there. Again.” 

"Ah, you like that, do you?" I said. 

"You can gloat as much as you like, just so long as you keep doing what you are doing." 

I laughed, even as I began to fuck him in earnest. He moaned enthusiastically into his pillow, arching back to meet me. 

I sped my rhythm and the wrought iron bedstead began to creak and tap against the wall. He reached out to hold it with one hand, awkwardly supporting his weight on his right elbow. Impulsively I grabbed his hair and tugged. His spine arched like a bow, and I felt his muscles quiver around me. It was evidently becoming difficult for him to hold that position with only one hand to support himself. He whined in frustration as he tried to lever himself against me. Finally he cried, "Oh God, John, stop. I need to--I need to do it another way." 

He rose up on his knees and pushed me away from him. He clenched around me and gave a strangled little whimper as I slid out. 

"What do you intend to do?" I asked as he staggered from the bed. In response he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me forcibly across the room. He pushed me roughly into the chair opposite his dressing table. 

He planted his feet on either side of the chair and lightly wrapped his right arm around my shoulders. Then he crouched on his muscular legs, hovering above my lap. He reached back and tried to guide me into him. I felt the head of my cock nudge against his hole. I clasped his arse in both hands, spreading his cheeks with my fingers, and tugged him down. 

My thighs ached as his full weight came to rest on my lap. His eyes were wide and unfocussed as he adjusted to the feeling of me deep within him. 

”Are you alright?” I asked. 

”Yes. Yes. Oh, John.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exposing his white throat to me. I could see his pulse pounding under the delicate skin. I licked him, from his clavicle to his adam’s apple. I sucked and nipped at his neck, claiming him with bruises. 

He gripped the back of the chair with both hands and began to move, slowly at first, then gaining in pace, bouncing and grinding on top of me, digging his toes into the carpet for leverage. He had one hand on the base of his cock, only squeezing, trying to preserve his pleasure as long as possible. The strain showed on his face. The sight of him abandoned to passion, every ounce of his concentration directed to using me for his pleasure, was nearly my undoing. I felt a heavy, hot, urgent force building within me, and decided that he must finish first an finish soon. 

I wrapped my hand around his own and encouraged him to pump faster. I rubbed my thumb over his slit, eliciting a deep shiver an a milky pearl, which I rubbed over his smooth red skin. He pulsed in my palm and his muscles clench around me. I knew his climax was imminent. He nodded at me, beyond all speech. I clutched his hip in a bruising hold and drove up into him. His soft moans and gasps had developed into urgent whines. Suddenly, he broke his rhythm and thrust unevenly into my hand, then with a sharp cry he came. It spilled over my fingers as I continued to frig him. He writhed desperately, then he spurted again---and again! By the end he was sucking in great heaving breaths and could barely remain upright. He draped his arms over my shoulders for support and collapsed against me. 

I was so frustratingly close. I wanted to throw him down on the floor and pound him through the carpet. Now that he had taken his pleasure he was lost in post coital lassitude. I braced my hands against the chair seat and jerked my hips. He gripped the back of the chair and rode me. Sparks of muted pleasure flitted across his face. I lasted only a few thrusts until I spent. Then the seconds dragged by, lost in white hot bliss. 

I relaxed back into the chair, Holmes still on top of me. He rested his head on my shoulder and we both tried to catch our breath. I nuzzled his temple. I could feel my seed trickling out of him. We were in a terrible state. 

“Please get up, Holmes,” I whispered against his sweat-damp hair. He stood up, took two steps backwards, and flopped onto the bed. 

I got to my feet, without any clear plan in mind. My legs were shaking rather badly so I decided the best course of action was to collapse next to Holmes on his narrow bed. We fit quite nicely if he drew up his knees and I wrapped an arm around his waist. 

“I was not expecting that to happen,” he said into the pillow. 

“What to happen?” 

“Any of it. This evening has blindsided me entirely and I think I will need several days to recover from the shock.” 

“Well, lucky for you, I am a medical man and will be available to nurse you through the worst of the effects.” 

“John Watson, you are a damned hypocrite.” 

“And you are an unqualified equivocator, so we are even.” 

He rolled over to face me with tired eyes. “Watson, I think I was right.” 

“Doubtless. What about?” 

“We cannot be friends anymore.” 

“That’s a rather cruel thing to say to a man who has just given you the best orgasm you’ve had in…” 

“I’d say about three years, but only because my wrist is still sore.” 

“Well, there you are.” 

“You must understand my predicament, though. I only have one friend, and now I think I might come to have one of something else instead.” 

”I would not think of it that way. Certainly you are the polymath of us two, but I do not think I flatter myself unduly to say that, this night, I have proven my range extends rather beyond your expectations. I think that being a friend and a lover is well within the scope of my abilities.” 

I did not know what he thought of this argument, for he had fallen asleep. As, soon, did I.


End file.
